by Deon Meyer
“You are not a whore,” he said distastefully. “An escort. Why did you become an escort?”
“You don’t want to know the truth, Carlos.”
“No, conchita. I do. The real truth.”
“Sometimes I think you want me to be this good girl. I am not a good girl.”
“You are. You have a good heart.”
“You see, if I tell you the truth you don’t want to hear it.”
He straightened his arms so he could look at her. “You know what? That is not the way Carlos thinks. Look at me, conchita. I am in drugs. I have killed guys. But I am not bad. I have a good heart. You see? You can be good, and you can do things that are not so good. So tell me.”
“Because I like to fuck, Carlos.”
“Sí?”
“Sí,” she said. “That is my drug.”
“How old were you? When you fucked first?”
“I was fifteen.”
“Tell Carlos.”
“I was at school. And this boy, he was sixteen. He was very beautiful. He walked home with me every afternoon. And one day he said I must come home with him. I was very curious. And so I went. And he said I had beautiful breasts. He asked if he could see them. And I showed him. Then he asked if he could touch them. And I said yes. And then he started to kiss me. On my nipples. He started to suck my nipples. And then it happened, Carlos. The drug. It was . . . It was like nothing I had ever felt before. It was intense. I liked it so much.”
“And then he fucked you?”
“Yes. But he was not experienced. He came too quickly. He was so excited. I didn’t have an orgasm. So afterwards, I wanted more. But not with boys. With men. So I seduced my teacher . . .”
“You fucked your teacher?”
“Yes.”
“And who else?”
“A friend of my father. I went to his home when his wife was away. I said I wanted to talk to him. I said I was very curious about sex, but I cannot talk to my parents about it, because they are so conservative. And I know he is different. He asked if I would like it if he showed me. I said yes. But you know what, Carlos? He was just as excited as the boy. He could not control himself.”
“Who else?”
“I fucked a lot of guys at university. For free. And then one day I thought, why for free? And that is how it happened.”
“Look,” said Carlos and pointed at his erection. “Carlos likes your story.”
“Then fuck me, Carlos. I love it so much.”
Wasserman, the acclaimed playwright, Professor of Afrikaans and Nederlands. Fifty-three years old, with a soft body, bushy beard and a beautiful, beautiful voice. At the start of every session she would have to lie in the bath so he could urinate on her, or else he could not get an erection. But from there on he was normal, except for the reading glasses — the better to see her breasts. He would come once a fortnight at three in the afternoon, as he had a younger wife who “might want something too.” He needed time to recharge before the evening. But his young wife would not let herself be pissed on, that was why he came to Christine.
They were waiting for him at precisely four o’clock. When he opened the door to leave her place at the Gardens Center, they hit him with a pick handle, breaking his teeth and jaw.
She heard the commotion and grabbed a dressing gown. “No!” she screamed. They were wearing balaclavas, but she knew they were the bodyguards. One looked her in the eyes and kicked Wasserman where he lay. Then they both kicked him. Seven ribs broken.
“I will call the police!” One of them laughed. Then they dragged him by the feet to the stairs and down two flights and left him there, bleeding and moaning.
She grabbed her cell phone and ran down to him. She bent over him. The damage made her nauseous. She touched his broken face with her fingertips. He opened his eyes and looked at her. There was a question through the agony.
“I’m calling an ambulance,” she said, holding his hand while she spoke.
He made a noise.
“I can’t stay here,” she said. “I can’t stay here.” There would be police. Questions. Arrest. She, Sonia could not afford that.
He just moaned, lying on his side in a pool of blood around his face.
She heard doors opening.
“The ambulance is on its way.” She squeezed Wasserman’s hand and then ran upstairs to her room and locked the door behind her. Feverishly she dressed herself. Carlos. What was she to do?
When she went out quietly, she went down first. She saw there were security personnel with Wasserman at the foot of the stairs. They did not see her. She walked up one flight of stairs, trying to keep calm. She walked slowly so as not to attract attention. She pressed the button for the lift, waited. Voices below. The lift took an eternity to arrive.
Carlos.
She phoned him once she reached the street. He did not answer his phone.
She went to her flat, sat on a chair in her sitting room with her phone in her hand. What was she going to do?
Later she phoned the ambulance services. They had taken Wasserman to City Park. She phoned the hospital. “We can’t give out information.”
“This is his sister.”
“Hold on.”
She had to listen to synthesized music, sounding tinny in her ear.
Eventually Casualty answered. “He’s in Intensive Care, but he should be okay.”
Carlos. She phoned again. It just kept on ringing. She wanted to get in her car and drive to his house. She wanted to hit him, smash his skull with a pick handle. He didn’t have the right. He couldn’t do this. She wanted to go to the police, she wanted to blow him off the earth. Rage consumed her. She looked for her telephone book and got the number of the police.
No. Too many complications.
She wept, but from frustration. Hate.
When she had calmed down she went to fetch Sonia. When she crossed the street holding her daughter’s hand, she saw the BMW on the other side, back window rolled down. He sat there watching, but not her. His eyes were on the girl and there was a strange expression on his face. It felt as if someone had their fist around her heart and were squeezing her to death.
The BMW pulled up alongside her when she was helping Sonia into her car.
“Now I know everything, conchita.” He looked at Sonia, looked at her child. If she had had a gun at that moment, she would have shot him in the face.
PART TWO
Benny
23.
Griessel was never uncomfortable with the bosses, mainly because he could drink them under the table singly or as a group. Or outwork them. He maintained a higher case solution rate than any one of them had in their days as detectives, alcoholic or not. But tonight he was not at ease. They stood in the little sitting room outside the Intensive Care Unit of City Park Hospital, although there were chairs available: Senior Superintendents Esau Mtimkulu and Matt Joubert, first and second in command of SVC, Commissioner John Afrika, the provincial head of detection, and Griessel. Cupido and Keyter sat just out of hearing. Their ears were pricked but they could not hear anything. When a member lay in Intensive Care, the big guns spoke in muffled tones.
“Give me that Woolworths man’s number, Matt,” said Commissioner Afrika, a colored veteran who had come up through the ranks in Khayelitsha, the Flats and the old Murder and Robbery Units. “I hear they are running to the minister, but to hell with them. I’ll deal with him. That is the least of our problems . . .” Here it comes, thought Griessel. He should never have hit the bastard, he knew that; never in his life had he carried on like that before. If they were to throw out the case because he had lost control, if a fucking serial murderer were to walk because Benny Griessel was angry at the entire world . . .
“Benny,” said Commissioner Afrika, “you say it was the tackle that caused his face to be injured like that?”
“Yes, Commissioner.” He looked into the man’s eyes and they knew, all four of them in the circle, what was happening now. “There was this shop mannequin standi
ng just in the wrong place. Reyneke’s face hit the face of the mannequin. That’s where the cuts came from.”
“He must have hit it fucking hard,” said Superintendent Mtimkulu.
“When I tackled him, I held his arms down because he had a firearm. So he couldn’t shield his face with his hands. That’s why he hit it so hard.”
“And then he confessed?”
“He lay there bleeding, and then he cried, ‘I can’t help it, I can’t help it,’ but with Cliffy wounded my attention was . . . er . . . divided. Only later under interrogation did I ask him what he meant. What it is that he can’t help.”
“And what did he say then?”
“At first he didn’t want to say anything. So . . . I asked Cupido and Keyter to leave, so that I could talk to him alone.”
“And then he confessed?”
“He confessed, Commissioner.”
“Will it stand up in court?”
“The whole sequence in the interrogation room is on video, Commissioner. I just asked to be alone with the suspect and, once they had left, I just looked at him. For a long time. Then I said: ‘I know you can’t help it. I understand.’ And then he began to talk.”
“Full confession.”
“Yes, Sup. All three of the women. Details that were not in the newspapers. We’ve got him, whoever he gets as his lawyer. And there’s a previous conviction. Rape. Four years ago in Montagu.”
“And the only witness of the mannequin incident is Cliffy Mketsu?”
“That’s right, Matt.”
All four looked across at the double doors that led to the ICU.
“Okay,” said the head of Investigation. “Good work, Benny. Really good work . . .”
The double doors opened. A doctor approached them; such a young man that he looked as if he should still be at university. There were bloodstains on his green theater overalls.
“He will be alright,” said the doctor.
“Are you sure?” asked Griessel.
The doctor nodded. “He was very, very lucky. The bullet missed nearly everything, but badly damaged the S4 area of his left lung. That is the tip of the upper lobe, anterior segment. There is a possibility that we will have to remove it, just a small piece, but we will decide once he has stabilized.”
We, thought Griessel. Why did they always talk about us, as if they belonged to some secret organization?
“That’s good news,” said the commissioner without conviction.
“Oh, and we have a message for a Benny.”
“That’s me.”
“He says the guy fell badly against the cash register.”
All four stared at the doctor with great interest. “The cash register?” asked Griessel.
“Yes.”
“Do me a favor, Doc. Tell him it was the mannequin.”
“The mannequin.”
“Yes. Tell him the man fell against the mannequin and the mannequin fell on the cash register.”
“I will tell him.”
“Thanks, Doc,” said Griessel, and turned to the commissioner, who nodded and turned away.
He bought a Zinger burger and a can of Fanta Orange at KFC and took them home. He sat on his “sitting-room” floor eating without pleasure. It was the fatigue, the after-effects of adrenaline. Also, the things waiting in the back of his mind that he did not want to think about. So he concentrated on the food. The Zinger didn’t satisfy his hunger. He should have ordered chips, but he didn’t like KFC’s chips. The children ate them with gusto. The children even ate McDonald’s thin cardboard chips with pleasure, but he could not. Steers’s chips, yes. Steers’s big fat barbecue-seasoned chips. Steers’s burgers were also better than anything else. Decent food. But he didn’t know where the nearest Steers was and he wasn’t sure if they would still be open at this time. The Zinger was finished and he had sauce on his fingers.
He wanted to toss the plastic bag and empty carton container in the bin, but remembered he didn’t have a bin. He sighed. He would have to shower — he still had some of Reyneke’s and Cliffy’s blood on him.
You have six months, Benny — that is what we are giving you. Six months to choose between us and the booze. Would you buy furniture for just six months? He couldn’t eat on the floor for six fucking months. Or come home to such a barren place. Surely he was entitled to a chair or two. A small television. But first, get out of these clothes and shower and then he could sit on his bed and make a list for tomorrow. Saturday. He was off this weekend.
Terrifying. Two whole days. Open. Perhaps he ought to go to the office and get his paperwork up to date.
He washed his hands under the kitchen tap, put the carton and the can and the used paper serviette into the red and white plastic packet and put it in a corner of the kitchen. He climbed the stairs while unbuttoning his shirt. Thank God they didn’t have to wear jacket and tie anymore. When he started with Murder and Robbery it was suits.
Where was Anna tonight?
The plastic shower curtain was torn in one corner and the water leaked onto the floor. It had a faded pattern of fish. He would have to get a bathmat as well. A new shower curtain too. He washed his hair and soaped his body. Rinsed off in the lovely hot, strong stream of water.
When he turned off the taps he heard his cell phone ringing. He grabbed the towel, rubbed it quickly over his head, took three strides to the bed and snatched it up.
“Griessel.”
“Are you sober, Benny?”
Anna.
“Yes.” He wanted to protest at her question, wanted to be angry, but he knew he had no right.
“Do you want to see the children?”
“Yes, I would very —”
“You can collect them on Sunday. For the day.”
“Okay, thank you. What about you? Can I also —”
“Let’s just keep to the children, for now. Ten o’clock? Ten to six?”
“That’s fine.”
“Goodbye, Benny.”
“Anna!”
She did not speak, but did not cut him off.
“Where were you this evening?”
“Where were you, Benny?”
“I was working. I caught a serial murderer. Cliffy Mketsu was shot in the lung. That’s where I was.” He had the moral high ground, a little heap, a molehill, but better than nothing. “Where were you?”
“Out.”
“Out?”
“Benny, I sat at home for five years while you were drunk or out and about. Either drunk or not at home. Don’t you think I deserve a Friday night out? Don’t you think I deserve to watch a movie, for the first time in five years?”
“Yes,” he said, “you deserve that.”
“Goodbye, Benny.”
Did you watch the movie alone? That’s what he wanted to ask, but the moral contours had shifted too quickly and he heard the connection go dead in his ear. He threw the towel to the floor and took a black pair of trousers from the cupboard to put on. He fetched pen and paper from his briefcase and sat down on the bed. He stared at the towel on the floor. Tomorrow morning it would still be lying there and it would be damp and smelly. He got up and hung the towel over the rail in the bathroom, went back to the bed and arranged the pillow so he could lean against it. He began his list.
Laundry.
There was a laundromat at the Gardens Center. First thing tomorrow.
Rubbish bin.
Iron.
Ironing board.
Fridge?
Could he manage without a fridge? What would he keep in it? Not milk — he drank his coffee black. On Sunday the children would be here and Carla loved her coffee; always had a mug in her hand when she did her homework. Would she be content with powdered milk? The fridge might be necessary, he would see.
Fridge?
Shower curtain.
Bath mat.
Chairs/sofa. For the sitting room.
Bar stools. For the breakfast nook.
How the hell was he going to support two ho
useholds on a police salary? Had Anna thought of that? But he could already hear her answer: “You could support a drinking habit on a police salary, Benny. There was always money for drink.”
He would have to buy another coffee mug for the children’s visit. More plates and knives, forks and spoons. Cleaning stuff for dishes, dusty surfaces, the bathroom and the toilet.
He made fresh columns on the page, noted all the items, but he could not keep the other things in his head at bay.
Today he had made a discovery. He would have to tell Barkhuizen. This thing about being scared of death was not entirely true. Today, when he charged at Reyneke on the top level of Woolworths with the pistol pointed at him and the shot going off, the bullet that had hit Cliffy Mketsu because Reyneke could not shoot for toffee . . .
That is when he had discovered he was not afraid of dying. That is when he knew he wanted to die.
He woke early, just before five. His thoughts went to Anna. Did she go to the movies alone? But he didn’t want to play with those thoughts. Not this early, not today. He got up and dressed in trousers, shirt and trainers only, and went out without washing.
He chose a direction; three hundred meters up the street he saw the morning, felt the languor of the early summer, heard the birds and the unbelievable silence over the city. Colors and textures and light of crystal.
Table Mountain leaned towards him, the crest something between orange and gold, fissures and clefts were pitch-black shadows against the angle of the rising sun.
He went up Upper Orange Street, turned into the park and sat on the high wall of the reservoir to look out. To the left Lion’s Head became the curves of Signal Hill, and below a thousand city windows were a mosaic of the sun. The sea was deep blue beyond Robben Island, far off to Melkbos Strand. Left of Devil’s Peak lay the suburbs. A 747 came in over the Tyger Berg and its shadow flashed over him in an instant.
Fuck, he thought, when had he last seen this?
How could he have missed it?
On the other hand, he pulled a face; if you are sleeping off your hangover in the morning, you won’t see sunrise over the Cape. He must remember this, the unexpected advantage of teetotalism.
A wagtail came and perched near him, tail going up and down, dapper steps like a self-important station sergeant. “What?” he said to the bird. “Your wife left you too?” He received no reply. He sat until the bird flew up after some invisible insect, and then he rose and looked up at the mountain again and it gave him a strange pleasure. Only he was seeing it this morning, nobody else.